Caring is Not an Advantage
by Clara Christine Eveline
Summary: Takes place during "The Blind Banker" spoiler for TBB and ASIP when John and Sherlock are in the museum with Soo Lin. What if John had stayed with Soo Lin? What if Zhi Zhu found him too? John gets shot, and Sherlock is overwhelmed. Rated T to be safe, mild language and graphics. Sherlock/John P.O.V. COMPLETE! :D
1. Careful Not to Break That

_**Hello there fellow Sherlockians! I'm writing for a different category this time, other than my Hunger Games category. This is angst because I felt like it! Sorry, about it being sad and all, I just felt like writing this because I've not found any other fanfics like this (if you've found others like this, please **__**send me their link so I can read them!**__**). This is sort of a "What if?" moment set in "The Blind Banker" (*SPOILER FOR TBB AND SLIGHTLY FOR ASIP!*) during which Sherlock and John are in the museum with Soo Lin. I hope I've written the characterizations right, I've tried my best to write Sherlock and John. Please review my lovelies; it makes my heart go pitter-pat! (Bad reviews are also appreciated, I'll except anything) ;)**_

Caring is Not an Advantage

**John P.O.V.:**

"All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book..." Soo Lin stated as a frustrated Sherlock Holmes urged her to hurry up and write down the translation. This case was intriguing, but Sherlock would soon become bored, if he didn't know how to unlock the final code.

"Yes, we know, what is the book?" Sherlock once again inquired.

Suddenly, the lights in the already dimly lit museum flickered off. The silver moonlight flooded through the skylights and cast an eerie glow over all the exhibits. John tensed, a natural military reaction. Sherlock glanced up, merely bored with the fact that the room was no longer illuminated, and showed anxiousness to finish this delightfully, complex case. I on the other hand showed the same expression as Soo Lin. Somebody was here. Judging by her fearful face, I knew it had to be her brother, the climber, _the murderer_. Somewhere in the dark, mysterious halls of the museum, a faint Chinese drum was beating. Sherlock perked his ears, and then seemed to notice the tense atmosphere as he looked around for the perpetrator.

"He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me." Soo Lin inhaled a sharp breath as she confirmed my thoughts.

Instantly aware of the situation, I drag Soo Lin down next to me and hide beneath the desk. Her fate is unmistakable, Zhi Zhu will kill her, and I'm determined not to let that happen. Another sound overlaps the now closer beating of the drum. Sherlock has taken off running, his shoes padding against the smooth, concrete floor.

"Sherlock, wait!" I say in a loud whisper. But before I know it, he's already been swallowed by the thick darkness.

**Sherlock P.O.V.:**

My shoes easily grip the smooth surface as I bolt down the halls, blood pounding in my ears. Finally I've reached the main atrium. I spin around and listen again for the drum. _There it is, rapidly increasing in speed and volume._ Moonlight pours through the glass roof throwing webbed shadows on to the floor. I've always been known as a sociopath, but I can just sense a twinge of fear, at the thought of not being able to have my vision one-hundred percent. This of course, in no way, distracts me from the thrill of capturing Zhi Zhu. I stare up at the towering marble walls and the grand circular staircase, searching for a sign of the killer. Then out of nowhere:

_Gunshot!_

There's someone firing from an upper balcony. I quickly snap my head to the right and catch a glimpse of the man. Sherlock dives behind the marble railing to escape the impeding bullet as it whizzes by his head.

**John P.O.V.:**

Trying to keep quiet, I hear a gunshot off in the direction Sherlock went in. I glance at Soo Lin, and notice her nod ever so slightly, she's telling me to go help my friend, _colleague_, I correct myself. "I can't leave you here, the danger is too great, he'll kill you before you can blink your eyes." I whisper urgently to her. She looks at me with a pained expression, no doubt considering she'll probably die anyway, whether I'm with her or not.

I feel a growing urge to go check on Sherlock; there hasn't been any noise after the shot. What if he got shot? But that thought quickly fades as another two shots erupt from the inky blackness. Zhi Zhu wouldn't have fired again if Sherlock had been shot the first time. I lean my head back against the belly of the desk and try to relax my rampaging heart.

**Sherlock P.O.V.:**

I duck once more as bullets narrowly evade my chest. Deciding the best thing to do would be to lead the killer away from Soo Lin and John, I take off running in the hopes Zhi Zhu will follow me. I allow a brief smirk to cover my lips as I do indeed hear him chasing me with uneven, but soft footsteps.

I ascend the Central staircase and move swiftly into one of the darker halls. _Maybe I can knock him unconscious when he can't see me._ I take a sharp turn to the left and enter a random exhibit, taking only a millisecond, literally, to read the label:

~ANTHROPOLOGY~

_Interesting. Perhaps I'll grab a skull to replace the one Mrs. Hudson got rid of. _I feel no fear now as I anticipate the rush of brawling with my assailant. Further gunshots ring off the walls of the rather small exhibit. Sherlock ducks behind one of the glass cases, hidden behind the skulls. A skull falls off its pedestal as Sherlock moves to catch it.

"Careful! These skulls are two-thousand years old, have a bit of respect!" I call out to the killer. The once simultaneous gunshots cease, and Sherlock stays backed up against the cool glass.

"Thank you." I pant. But there is not a sound or sign of movement as I turn to look for the killer. In fact, he's not even _here. _Cautiously, I inch away from the cases of skulls and search around. The drum has stopped beating, and I realize my possibly fatal mistake. I run as fast as I can back to the atrium. Glancing around, I thankfully see neither John nor Soo Lin there. _Good, there's still time._

I'm about to burst through the doors of the teapot exhibit when I hear one shot ring off from inside. At first I'm not worried, Soo Lin is most likely dead, and there is no reason why that should worry me. Death has never worried me, obviously because I'm a sociopath (NOT psychopath Anderson, mind you). But I can't help but feel the knot that is growing ever so slightly in my stomach. _John._ Yes, that's it. He's the only one that cares about me, and he's the only one that I've ever cared about. Why am I worried about a sturdy medical soldier though? I ponder for a second or two, and then it hits me. Surely he wouldn't just stand around and allow Soo Lin to be killed by her brother; he must've put up a fight or something. But no, there has been no sound from the exhibit except the gunshot. Therefore, he was either knocked out and helpless to defend the girl, or the shot Sherlock had heard was – _No. I refuse to believe that._ And having deduced all of his thoughts within seconds of the shot, Sherlock barged through the door and strutted over to the upturned desk.

**John P.O.V.: **

I wince at every shot that I hear. I can tell Soo Lin does the same. I wish Sherlock would hurry up and disarm the man so that we can leave. This girl is in desperate need of a shock blanket right now. I almost chuckle at the thought of my previous adventure with Sherlock Holmes, and how he could not understand why he was given a blanket after I shot the murderous cabbie driver. I must've let a smirk show on my face though, because when I look up, Soo Lin glares at me for a brief second. She instantly returns to a terrified expression though.

"Sorry…" I mumble, probably too soft for her to hear anyway.

Behind me, I hear the soft creak of a door opening and the delicate footsteps of a man enter. I freeze as my blood turns to ice. Soo Lin does the same also. I raise my finger to my lips in a gesture to be quiet. She nods slightly. The intruder continues walking towards the desk and I can tell from the slight scuffles he makes, he is carrying a gun in his left hand. When Zhi Zhu appears in front of the desk, I stick my foot out and he trips over it. Him being a rather expert on climbing and such, allows him to land gracefully and he's back on his feet before I have the chance to disarm the man. _Stupid, stupid, stupid! _I think to myself. _Great John, just give away your position to the enemy._ I smack my hand against my forehead in angst, and suddenly I'm pulled out from under the desk.

Before I can object or utter a sound, a thick fabric, wool possibly, is stuffed so far back in my mouth, that it isn't possible to make a single sound. I helplessly realize that I've been gagged and any cries for Sherlock would be physically impossible. Zhi Zhu sticks a needle in my arm, and suddenly I feel woozy. _Chloroform. _I think to myself, but only a very, very small dosage. Zhi Zhu intends to keep me conscious. My vision blurs as I see Soo Lin yanked out from under the table also.

My hearing is fading and I can see her mutter words to her brother. Soo Lin is caressed on her neck. And then, as quickly as it started, her brother holds her head still, tears glistening in the fearful girl's eye, and Zhi Zhu jerks his muscular arms sharply to the right. Soo Lin crumples to the ground, her neck obviously broken. I grimace. Zhi Zhu closes in on me and raises his gun. I, in my drugged state, cannot move out of the gun's path. I helplessly stare ahead, and watch as the man pulls the trigger.

**Sherlock P.O.V.:**

The curtains on the window to my left shift slightly, and I hear Zhi Zhu slide down the outside museum wall. Cursing, I watch him escape. But I have other priorities here, so I temporarily ignore the criminal. I glance around and see Soo Lin lying on the ground-_ neck snapped_. I feel a wave of relief pass over me, until I realize the facts don't add up. There is no blood coming from her, there is also not a "black lotus" resting on her cold, upturned hand. _But then who had been shot?_

"John?" "Where are you?" "This isn't funny, stupid bastard." Still no response. I feel my insides churn and I realize my head is full of fear for the one man I've ever cared about. I race around the room and search for a sign of my flat mate. Finally, I check the dark corner of the bloody exhibit. There, amongst cluttered desk papers, is my dear John Watson. His blood stains the pristine white museum pamphlets a dark crimson, a black lotus is placed ever so carefully on his palm, his hair is slightly damp-_sweat-surprise attack_, in his arm is a sedative-_ chloroform, _and the worst part is his mouth. It is filled with wool so dense, it prevents his vocal cords access to air.

"John!" I shout.

He opens drugged eyes and stares at me with pained blue orbs. I quickly grab the wool out of his mouth, not even grimacing when it is soaked with his saliva. John instantly breathes a raspy breath as oxygen fills his deprived lungs.

"Sher-lock…" John croaks.

"I'm here." I say as steady as I can manage. I grip his shoulders and look down at the bullet wound in his stomach. _There is blood. So, so, so much blood._ I repress a shudder. "It's going to be okay." I tell him, though I'm not sure if I, the great Sherlock Holmes, speak the truth.

"No..." John says. "I'm a doctor, it's not okay."

This man breaks my heart, and I finally realize I have one. My only friend is going to die right now.

"Shut up." I tell him. I will not let this happen. Taking my scarf, I tightly knot it around the small man's injured stomach. Then I swiftly extract my phone from my coat. I dial Lestrade and wait for him to pick up. I quickly disconnect the call though when I remember he is out of town. _Damnit!_ Why does he have to be gone now? I dial 999 instead and wait for the operator. As I expected, she is a dull person, whose tone suggests no concern for John's health. She finally says an ambulance is on the way, and I let out a breath of air.

"We'll have to explain why we're in the museum after hours." John says with a slight laugh, though he winces at the pain it causes him.

"It doesn't matter now. John you need to keep talking to me, don't close your eyes." I practically beg, and I hate that my so called emotions are coming through.

"Don't worry." John slurs.

But I worry. He is staring up at me, and I can only feel what is described as guilt. _Why did I even run off in the first place?!_ "I'm sorry..." I say.

"Nothin' to be sorry 'bout mate." He says in his usual John self. Showing a small smile.

"John, I…" I can't get the words out. The smile makes me feel worse. This man has been with me for probably only a month, and I've basically given him a death wish. I always thought I didn't have _feelings_. But John was an exceptional case. For some reason, I have feelings towards him. Not romantically, but friendship wise. This is entirely new to me, I haven't the faintest idea whether I should be crying or telling him it'll be alright. I choose the latter, never once have I cried, nor am I going to start now.

"It's okay Sherlock." John says sympathetically. I know he doesn't mean he'll be fine, he means he wants me to be fine.

Suddenly, I can't control these _feelings_ anymore. "No! It's. Not. Okay! You're dying because I left you alone with a killer running lose! This is my fault, I'm so sorry." Sherlock's voice cracked at the end. He could no longer feel strong.

"Shhh…" John coos.

"Just don't die okay? I can't be alone again. Everyone else is so dull." Sherlock says rather blandly.

"Sherlock, we both know I might not hold up to that." John states.

"I don't care." Sherlock replies stubbornly.

I reach down and put more pressure on the bullet wound. It's gushing blood out like a waterfall. John's face pales and he closes his eyes with a sigh. "John?" I ask timidly, not ready for my friend to die. There's no response, I grab his shoulder, careful to avoid the left and shout, "JOHN!"

"Mmph." He replies.

"Keep your eyes open, John, don't make me beg." Though Sherlock is already begging.

"It-it hurts, so bad." He states, voice dripping in pain.

"I know, just hold on, please." Sherlock is afraid for his friend.

John doesn't answer, his head lolls back. Sherlock pales as he watches his friend slip into unconsciousness. "John! Please wake up! This isn't funny, I'm sorry for being such a git. Don't die…please?" The last word is strangled and would be inaudible to anyone. Sherlock carefully picks up John's wrist and searches for a pulse. He finds one, but it quickly fades into nothingness. "No… Don't do this to me." Sherlock whispers. He attempts CPR, but he knows it's too late. So Sherlock just wraps himself over his flat mate's body and clings there in self-loathing.

The paramedics finally arrive and they have to forcefully pull Sherlock away from the body. Sherlock doesn't throw a hissy-fit, he doesn't sob into some stranger's shoulder, and he doesn't even decline the soft orange blanket that gets wrapped around him. No, Sherlock Holmes stands there and watches John get put on a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance.

The lights of the emergency vehicles disappear as they drive down the street. Sherlock stands there, a hollow shell full of nothing. He sniffs once, then twice. Realizing his body is about to cry, Sherlock tries to stop it. He doesn't want his body to betray his mind. But he can't stop the one tear that finds its way down his cheek. He angrily wipes it away. Composing himself, Sherlock walks home. He wants to walk, not ride in a taxi _alone_. And the one thought he has as his blood-smeared coat billows behind him, is that he will never again have another flat mate.


	2. Tears Stain the Violin

_**Hey guys! Thanks to my reviewers I've decided to add another two chapters to this, and make it a three-shot instead. GUESS WHAT! Today, Thursday, is **__**Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday!**__** Happy birthday Mr. Cumberbatch, I'm sure lots of people here on enjoy your outstanding work as Sherlock Holmes (I know I do)! In honor of that, I'm posting this today. Wish him a happy birthday, and watch lots of Sherlock! Hehe, anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter and the little "twist" I decided to add. Review as always my lovely readers, I love hearing from you all.**_

Chapter Two

**Sherlock P.O.V.:**

Silence. That is the first thing Sherlock is aware of when he walks into the flat. There isn't another pair of feet scuffling behind him, there isn't an irritated comment about there being no milk left, and there is not the familiar _smell_ of John Watson, his flat mate.

I slowly ascend the creaky wooden stairs, not even bothering to lock the front door. I walk into our flat, no, it's my flat now. One month of living with John has changed me. Most people are ordinary, they never cease to make stupid comments (rather like Donovan and Anderson), and they show their stupid emotions. John was different though. He actually put up with me. He had to have been a bit crazy to do that. I smirk at the thought.

"John, I've been getting the impression that you are craz-"I stop my comment as I turn around. Oh, right. He's not here. If John was here, he would probably agree with the fact that he's not quite right in the head. Then he'd chuckle, murmur something inaudible to the human ear- statistics show it'll most likely be comparison to war life and now, and then ask if I wanted tea as he made his way to the kitchen. I once again have to bite back on my tongue to prevent from asking him to get me a cuppa.

Sliding out of my beloved coat, I toss it in the hallway. Mrs. Hudson will have to wash the blood off it. _Blood._ My dead flat mate's blood. I almost turn around and pick the coat up, not wanting to wash away the last impressions of John. But the thought stills, as I take in my surroundings. _Chair- John. Mug- John. Laptop- John. Union Jack Pillow- John. Empty fridge- John. _I realize that too much will remind me of John, so I'll allow Mrs. Hudson to wash the coat.

There's a strange feeling inside of me. I've never felt this before, it's almost physically painful. I quickly check myself over to make sure there are no cuts or gashes, but my inspection turns up pointless as I realize this _pain_ is emotional. I feel it start in my gut. It grows until the pain is intolerable. "Ugh." I moan as I sink to my knees. The pain swells and rises to my head, threatening to spill over my lashes in the form of tears. I bite back on my lip, hard enough to draw blood, determined not to let that happen. I will not show weakness, _never._ A call rings from downstairs.

"Sherlock dear, I didn't hear you and John come in. Did you forget to lock the door again?" Mrs. Hudson trills. I hear her muffled footsteps hurry over and latch the door closed. Then she sighs and stumbles up the stairs. As she reaches the top, I feel her eyes bore into my crumpled self on the floor; I can _feel_ her worry as she looks me over.

"Sherlock, are you alright dear?" She asks in a concerned tone. She pauses for a second before she adds on. "Where's John?"

This is too much. How am I supposed to break such terrible news, and death had never been so terrible before, to sweet Mrs. Hudson? I decide to turn to my old sociopathic ways, and just be bland with the facts. "Mrs. Hudson," I begin, my baritone voice keeping a perfectly steady tone, "I'm sure you are aware of the case I've been on for the past days,"

"Yes, the ones with all the Chinese scribbles." She says in acknowledgement. Obliviously she is proud that she can remember which case I'm on.

"Well, John and I had determined the next victim in this case, so we tracked her down. Soo Lin was her name; she could decipher the code to unlocking the truth to all the ruckus these symbols caused. Earlier this evening we came upon her at the museum, she began to translate the symbols when her brother, Zhi Zhu, a serial killer and climber, decided to show up. I ran off to find him, John stayed with the girl. When I returned, I found Soo Lin dead, and John barely alive." I paused, taking time to recompose myself. I will not break down again like before.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson cried, her hand flew to her chest. "Is he in the hospital?" Her voice shook with worry.

"No, my dear Mrs. Hudson. I gave a pathetic attempt at trying to revive him, and he died right there." There. It's out now. I even went as far as to call my attempt pathetic.

"Oh Sherlock honey, I'm, I'm…" Mrs. Hudson bustles into the room and looks me in the face. She grabs my shoulders and envelops me in a tight hug. I don't want her sympathy. She's crying now, and that only forces my suddenly active emotions to want to do the same.

"Please don't cry Mrs. Hudson." But even I can hear the hint of disdain that lingers in my voice. I allow my protective barriers to come tumbling down as I let a few tears fall down my cheek. The drops of water run down the woman's shoulder in a slow _drip, drip, drip. _While we're both standing there, I can't help shake the feeling that this is like a mother comforting her child after their pet died. _No. John was never a pet._ I quickly correct myself.

"Oh dearie, I'm so sorry, how about I make you a cuppa?" Not waiting for my response, the woman rushes into the kitchen. I hear her mutter things like "…such a good man…", and "…just moved in…" The woman is obviously disgruntled, I hear pots banging around the small kitchen as her trembling fingers get to work.

I lower myself in my chair across from John's. _No one will ever sit in John's chair, _I decide rather childishly. Already the flat lacks the comfort of John being present. All of this thinking and feeling will soon rot my brain, so I leap up and grab my faithful violin. I improvise measures after measures. Each note is played sorrowfully. I don't even notice when Mrs. Hudson sets my tea down and leaves. The tea sits untouched and before long, turns cold.

I play all night, hoping that an agitated John will run the stairs and tell me to stop playing at this late hour. But he never comes.

Eventually in the morning, I've found that I've passed out on the floor. My suit full of wrinkles from the floorboards. I pick myself up, and dust off my jacket. Eyeing a beaker with a suspicious liquid to the left, I conclude that one of my experiments went wrong and I've passed out.

"John, fix me some tea would you?" I shout up the stairs to his bedroom. When I get no answer, I roll my eyes and tromp up the stairs so the army doctor can do as I asked. Barging into his room, I spot the crisp, neat sheets of his un-slept bed and the clean desk to my right. I feel a pang of worry as I shoot back down the stairs to the living room. I stop at once, as I see my coat lying on the floor in the hall. _Oh. _The events of last night play through my brain like a bad movie that I'm forced to watch. I recall my feeble attempt at saving John, and a sobbing landlady trembling in my arms.

My shoulders slack and I rub my eyes, finally my mind has caught up with my body. I pour out the dreadful, cold tea Mrs. Hudson had made, and stare out the window. I have not the slightest appetite, so I don't bother walking into the kitchen.

Suddenly my mobile buzzes at the alert of a text. The sudden sound makes me jump. Shamefully I pick up the phone and analyze the sender.

_DI Lestrade~ 1 New Message(s)_

Angrily, I decide not to open his text message, I do not want to hear his "condolences." I've had enough of all these feelings. Why did I even allow myself to develop a friendship anyway? I'm also mad at Lestrade, because he finally decides to contact me after it's too late. Why must people be so stupid all the time? The phone once again drags me from my thoughts as it buzzes again. Sighing, I reach and pick it up:

_DI Lestrade~ 2 New Message(s)_

"I do not want to talk to you!" I yell at the phone. I snatch up my violin again and play as I walk out of the room. I play for hours without stopping. I compose instantly different movements of my masterpiece. There are fast-paced notes during which I remember the chase after the cabbie with John. There's a soft section while I remember watching John fall asleep on the couch. And finally my piece comes to a close when I end with a sorrowful movement, in which John is unfortunately shot. By the time I've returned to the living room, it's noon, and I've found that my phone has been busy.

_DI Lestrade~ 34 New Message(s)_

I'm about to smash the damn device when it buzzes again. Tiredly, I look to see who the sender is this time, and it nearly stops my so-called heart.

_John Hamish Watson~ 1 New Message(s)_

_**I promise with all my heart there will be a final third chapter after this! Hopefully, I'll be able to post it today too (Benedict's birthday should be rewarded with two chapters in a day!) I hope this cliffhanger won't kill you too bad. I'll post later today (that isn't at some ungodly hour, right now I'm posting this at 12:30 am!). Review lovelies, you'll read more soon! :D**_


	3. In Which Everything Became Okay

_**Hello once again (it's no longer 12:30am, so that's good! Lol). Anyway, I can't stop saying **__**Happy Birthday**__** to the lovely Benedict Cumberbatch; I hope you all wish him well. Please donate to the Teen Cancer fund in honor of his birthday. This is the final installment of this three-part story, hope you've enjoyed it. I completely and utterly forgot to put a disclaimer in: **__**I do not own Sherlock/BBC/Benedict/Martin/Moffat/or any other people associated with this (might I add sadly).**__** Here's the last chapter, as always, I greatly appreciate reviews. Please let me know what you think. Also, I'll take requests, just PM me them, or leave them in a review. Thank you all for your support! XOXO**_

Chapter 3

**Sherlock P.O.V.:**

I stare at my phone. How is it possible that a dead man was able to send me a text message? It must be Anderson fooling around. Disdainfully, I decide to open it. But what I read sounds nothing like Anderson, or even Donovan.

_1 New Message,_

_From: John Hamish Watson-_

_SHERLOCK! I know you're mad at me for letting the killer get away, but is it possible, just for once, for that great intellectual brain of yours, to respond to Lestrade? P.S. Don't mind me; I'm just sitting in a hospital waiting for the great Mr. Holmes to take me back to our flat._

My fingers numb and I can hear the dull thud of my mobile falling to the floor. _What the Hell was that?_ My heart starts to beat rapidly at the thought of John not really being dead. But I saw him die; his pulse had slowed then stopped completely. Surely the medics were too late to revive him. I didn't follow the ambulance though; maybe he was actually brought back to life. I and my stupid _feelings_ got in the way from keeping hope, so I just trudged back home in my misery. Deciding to play safe, I glance at the messages from Lestrade. I don't read all of them but a few catch my eye.

_1: Sherlock, heard what happened, flying back to London right now._

_2: Let's meet at Bart's._

_3: Are you there? I'll be there by 10pm_

Skipping through half of them, I realize that Lestrade was trying to arrange us a meeting with John in the hospital. _Stupid!_ I slap myself on the forehead. _Smooth Sherlock, allow your only friend to wither away in a hospital, while you refuse to connect with the outside world._ Lestrade must have heard from Scotland Yard that John had been shot during our case. Unfortunately, I didn't bother to hear the paramedic's recap on John's health, I assumed the worst. I glance at the last couple of texts.

_31: SHERLOCK! You need to get down here, John is wondering where you are._

_32: How am I supposed to comfort him when his flat mate decides to act like a complete idiot?_

_33: John is slowly becoming stronger (when are you coming to see for yourself?)_

_34: John says he is able to text, he's is sending you a text right now, I expect you to reply to him._

That's the last of Lestrade; I quickly flip back to the text John sent me. Feeling chills race over my bony spine, I decide to have faith that this isn't a prankster and type a hasty reply:

_Sorry John, I'll be there soon_

_SH_

The phone almost immediately vibrates as soon as the text message sends. Deciding it's just a "_You better be, JW" _text, Sherlock grabs his still bloodied coat off the dusty wooden floor, and wriggles himself in. Stuffing his phone in the inside pockets, Sherlock reaches for his scarf. Realizing it was still wrapped around John's abdomen when the paramedics took him away, Sherlock sighs and steps out of the flat. Hoping, as much as a sociopath can, that John is actually _okay._

**John P.O.V.:**

The last thing John remembers before blacking out in the dark museum is a whole lot of pain, and Sherlock's concerned face lingering over his. Sherlock was never one for concern, or any really any type of emotion. John Watson was special though according to Sherlock, so as he laid there on the uncomfortable floor, certain that the bullet wound would kill him; and John almost smiled for making an impression in the sociopath's life. Sorry that he was going to leave it. That however was not the case, when the man was suddenly blinking his eyes rapidly as nurses literally shocked the life back into the poor man.

Bright, florescent, white lights rained down on the army doctor as he struggled to consciousness. _I'm in a hospital obviously_, he concluded. Suddenly aware of the thick gauze wrapped around his torso, John winced when he looked down and saw blood oozing from between the layers. The pain was there, but fainter. An IV line fed him morphine, and the pain slowly drifted away.

_Sherlock._

Sherlock was the only thought rampaging through his mind as he tried to sit up. A nurse hurried over and scolded him, before laying him back down. Accepting his inability to move, John sighed and fell back into the calm inky blackness of morphine.

**Sherlock P.O.V.:**

Sherlock hailed a cab down within seconds of stepping off Baker Street. He had to go see John and apologize. He only hoped Lestrade wouldn't be around to hear him do that. Apologizing was dull and humiliating. , but Sherlock knew it was necessary when it came to best friends. Smirking at the thought of him having a 'best friend', Sherlock tumbled clumsily into the cab with excitement growing in his previously pained chest.

"Saint Bart's Hospital, and step on it." Sherlock ordered. He accessed the cabbie as a precaution, his previous case left him a little timid of the unknown drivers. The cabbie grumbled something incoherent but otherwise pressed his foot to the pedal. The drive was too long for Sherlock, but he tried to force himself to be patient. When was Sherlock Holmes ever this impatient about someone?

The cab finally pulled up to the curb, and the driver turned around in his seat expecting payment. But Sherlock, in his anxious state, forgot about paying the driver as he bounded up the steps to the hospital. The driver, not wanting to cause a ruckus, simply sped away shouting quite a colorful vocabulary of words. Sherlock twitched his mouth in a half smirk.

Striding towards the front desk, Sherlock turned to the receptionist for her assistance. She was a copper-haired woman, late 20's, and obviously not educated in the medical field. She was just here to make the money; therefore, she must still be living with her parents. This kind of job probably paid as much as a Starbuck's cashier.

"Sir? Excuse me, I just asked what you needed." The lady said, pulling Sherlock from his deductions.

"Yes, sorry. I'm here to see Doctor John H. Watson. Would you be kind enough to tell me his room number?" Sherlock inquired.

"Ah yes, Mr. Watson. Are you family?" She questioned.

Pausing for a brief second, Sherlock replied in a confident "Yes." Then he thought for a moment before adding on, "It's _Doctor,_ not Mr."

"I assume you're-" She squinted at the screen, "Harry Watson?" She asked uncertainly.

"Sure, room number?" Sherlock asked agitated.

"Yes of course, second story, room 221." She answered with a smile.

Sherlock twitched his lips at the irony as he strode off down the hall. Not even bothering to thank the woman. Stepping into the polished elevator, Sherlock pressed the number _2_, and the machine began to rise. Sure enough, the doors broke apart and revealed a waiting Lestrade. Surprised, Sherlock muttered a "Hello" and pulled the Detective Inspector by the arm.

"Bloody Hell Sherlock, I was just about to go get you. Talk about timing, you're a little late, eh?"

"No need for that Inspector, I'm right here." Sherlock countered. Rounding a corner Sherlock saw the doors for the _200_ rooms. He forced himself to keep steady walking pace, as the urge to run hit him. Finally _221_ came around and Sherlock waltzed in, not even bothering to knock.

The room was very clean, with only a few items inside. A few chairs, a side table, and at long last, the bed that held a paling Dr. John Watson. "John." Sherlock announced his present. His brain couldn't come up with anything else to say.

John fluttered his eyes and glanced over towards Sherlock. "Sherlock, what took you so long?"

"I've been wanting to ask that myself." Lestrade turned towards Sherlock. Sherlock threw him a glare and the DI took the hint. "Well I guess I'll leave you two, call if you need me." And with that, Lestrade took one more glance and walked briskly out of the room. Leaving the Army Doctor and the Consulting Detective together.

"Sooo…" John sighed at the awkward situation.

"John, I-"Sherlock looked away in shame. "I failed you." He let out.

"It's really okay Sherlock, I've been shot before." But even John felt a little hesitant.

It was not okay. Sherlock allowed this man to almost die, while he ran around trying to be like a hero. "No." Was all the lanky detective could mutter.

"I'm okay Sherlock; fine really, they said I could go home soon." John let out hopefully, hoping to put the tense atmosphere at ease. Sherlock didn't reply. "Sherlock?" John asked with a touch of concern.

"I thought you had died. John. I left you to be taken away while I walked back to the flat. I left you at your time of need." The detective let out through gritted teeth. "I thought you died…" He repeated in a whisper.

John feeling the detective's emotions, tried to make his flat mate feel better. "I'm not dead Sherlock."

"I know. You have no idea how much I-"Sherlock stopped, determined once again to not show his weak side. So instead he strutted over to his friend and sat down in the chair next to the bed. After a few minutes of silence, he looked up and stared into the bright blue eyes of John Watson. "It's funny." He commented.

"What is?" John asked curiously.

"Your room number, it's like they want you to feel more at home." Sherlock said with a faint smile.

"Yes, but I far prefer the flat back on Baker St." John sighed in angst as he wished to be home.

"Me too, but its home-"Sherlock paused choosing his words carefully. "Whenever I'm with you." He smiled and looked back up at his only friend.

"I suppose you're right." John returned the smile. Both men felt the need for the other's companionship. So just this one time, they accepted a hug from the other. Sherlock held on tightly, but released a little when John winced from his wound.

"I'm sorry John, for being an idiot." He muttered, finally getting that damn apology out.

"It's fine Sherlock, really. Everyone is an idiot at some point."

Sherlock pulled back abruptly still holding John's arms, and let his arrogant self come forth. "I'll admit I _acted _like an idiot, but that does not mean I _am _one." He snapped.

John just chuckled. "Okay, okay." He reassured. Both embraced each other for the second time.

I few minutes passed and Sherlock spoke again, his voice muffled by John's shoulder. "I'll get the milk, if you promise to not get shot again."

"No promises if I'm living with you." John laughed once more. They still held on to each other with no intention of letting go.

Sherlock accepted his feelings, and decided not to hold them in. John was a special man; he could bring them out of the detective so easily. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. "I told Mrs. Hudson you were dead, she'll probably have a heart attack when she sees you."

"Don't worry, I'm a doctor." And with that John let go of Sherlock so he could stare into his eyes. The only thing he found was _Relief._

**THE END.**

_**Hope you guys enjoyed this! REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! What did you think? Once again, I repeat, wish Benedict a very Happy Birthday! (Maybe he'll get Sherlock season 3 out sooner, Lol!) **_


End file.
